Sometimes You Gotta Bend It
by Red Lioness
Summary: An Icelandic contortionist tackles the challenge of surviving Mordhaus.
1. Chapter 1

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Seriously, how often did a hard working girl get to go see Dethklok live? Gytha Sinnsdottir could hardly contain herself. She even managed to survive the band's arrival on stage with little more than a few bumps and bruises. Of course, it dawned on her very quickly that at 4'10" tall, actually _seeing_ anything would be impossible.

Since the philosophy of death metal was to crush the sick and the weak, there was also no chance of her getting let to the front just because she was small. However, she didn't fork over $200 for a Dethklok ticket to _not_ see Dethklok. She had to get up higher to see the band.

Given her day job, it was impossible for her to ignore the series of catwalks and guide wires supporting the stage. She managed to fight her way to a support and began climbing.

She wasn't the only one who had the idea. By the time she had ensconced her butt on a catwalk, dozens of other people had tried to climb up as well and the whole thing began to shake and sway. Gytha tried desperately to scoot closer to another support pole to be safe before the whole thing fell, but she didn't quite make it.

The support pole started to topple into the crowd, crushing fans. The guide wires tore through the assembled throng, decapitating metal fans and tearing off limbs, leaving a fine mist of blood covering the survivors.

Gytha wasn't worried about the casualties. At the moment, she was worried about becoming one. The catwalk continued to careen forward and the only way off was to leap. The tiny woman ran as best she could in her high heeled boots and leaped outwards, reaching for anything she could get her hands on.

Curtain.

Gytha sank her fingers into the thick velvet curtain that hung beside the stage and slid down it, hissing as the fabric burned her hands, even though the black fingerless gloves she wore. Not meant to take the weight of a human, even a severely undersized one, a few rings snapped and the curtain jerked inward.

Gytha was dumped unceremoniously on her ass on hardwood boards.

Luckily, at this point in her life, she pretty much had falling down to an art form and she rolled to a halt under a mixing board.

"Ow. Fuck. Fucks. Not my best landing," she hissed.

Booted feet thudded by her suddenly.

"What is it?" Someone asked.

"Someone came through the curtain," the owner of the boots announced.

Gytha started to call out that it was just one small Icelander woman making a very rough landing, but stopped herself.

She was _backstage_.

She was backstage at a Dethklok concert! Bitching! She just had to stay quiet and out of the Klokateers' way and she'd have the best seats in the house! Maybe she'd even get to meet the band!

"If you find someone, take them down," the unseen person announced.

The sound of a gun being cocked reached her ears.

"Duh. This isn't my first concert," Boots announced.

"I'll tell the others to keep an eye out," the other man growled.

Boots prowled away among the equipment, peeking behind anything big enough to hold a man. Gytha made a mental change in her priorities. 'Not getting murdered by Gears' was now number one, second only to 'get the fuck out of here as quickly as possible.'

Checking to make sure there was no one in immediate area, Gytha clambered out from under the mixing board and went to the curtain, ready to slip back under it and take her chances in the crowd.

The sight of several Gears lining the crowd, peering back under the curtain drove her back into the equipment.

Gytha had been in plenty of backstages and somehow, she didn't think the old standby of 'just grab a piece of scenery and act like you belong there' was going to work this time. Well . . . wait, the Skank Patrol rounded up groupies for the band, right? Maybe she could find them and slip in amongst the sluts. That might work.

And she might still get to meet the band.

"I'm thirsty," Nathan growled into the microphone. "I'm gonna get some water."

"Hey, I'm thirshty, too!" Murderface announced.

"You aren't the one singing!"

"Hey, I'm shtill under theshe hot lightsh and shit! Why can't I have shome water, too?"

"Wes alls ams hots and t'irsty," Skwisgaar announced. "But we'm's can'ts just gets up and leaves stage."

"Why naht?" Pickles asked. "They ain't goin' nowhere."

"Oh yeah. Okay, Toki's gonna stay and play. The rest of us are going to get some water."

"What? Why I gots to stays on stage alone?" Toki yelped.

"'Cause you don't want any water!" Murderface yelled.

"Yes I does! I ams hot and t'irsty, toos!"

"Too bad, Toki! Just play a solo or something."

The rhythm guitarist perked at this.

"Reallys? I gets a solo?"

"Yeah, whatevers; we's bes back later," Skwisgaar grunted.

The rest of the band filed offstage, leaving Toki practically vibrating with happiness.

Maybe it was time for the 'act like you belong here' shtick. Gears were closing in, she had no idea how to get out of this maze, and there was really no way to blend in without stealing a hood. They said every Klokateer had to kill someone with their bare hands to get a spot, so that didn't sound like a good idea under any circumstances.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"Hey, who's that chick?"

Gytha started forward without even bothering to look around. Act natural, act like you know where you're going, don't let anyone bug you oh shit she was headed straight for the stage. Shit. There was no other way around this. Like her old grandfather had always said, 'Leave no room for doubt. Even if you have no idea what you're doing, you do it as hard as you can.'

At the tender age of ten Gytha had pointed out numerous flaws in this argument, but here and now was the time to give it a shot.

'Do it as hard as you can.'

Gytha grabbed a guitar from the rack of spares waiting stage left and walked onto stage. She briefly noted only Toki was still on. She also noted that the guitar she had snagged was a Flying V. Perfect; it would look like she had some idea what she was doing.

Gytha got a good grip on the guitar and began to perform.

After about two minutes she heard a voice cry:

"Wowee!"

Stage right, the rest of the band noticed that Toki was not alone.

"Dood, what's that chick – DOOD!"

"Holy craps," Skwisgaar muttered. "Never seeds anybody dos _dat_ on a guitar befores."

"Me neither," Pickles agreed.

"Me neither," Nathan seconded.

"I have," Murderface muttered, but he was obviously lying so everyone ignored him.

"How does . . . . how does she keep her balance?" Nathan wondered.

( pic link here .com/gallery/#/d2fmabb )


	2. Chapter 2

"And then what happened?" Charles Ofdensen asked coolly.

"Well, after the band came back on stage, the acrobat left. Then the boilers exploded. Things were a bit messy for a while, My Lord."

"So you never found her."

"We searched every piece of equipment that was big enough to hold a human being, Lord. They were all clear," the Klokateer said firmly.

"I see. Have you heard of enterology, Number 46122?" the CFO inquired.

"Ah . . . no, Lord."

"Enterology is a circus act where a contortionist squeezes his or her body into a small box or tight space."

"My Lord, we _did_ check all –"

"I believe the world record was a cube eighteen inches across," Charles continued.

" . . . eighteen inches?"

"Yes. It really should go without saying that this wasn't the most secure show the boys ever played."

"My Lord! What were the odds that a professional circus performer would sneak backstage and put on a free show?" 46122 blurted.

"Well, considering it happened, 100%," Charles answered. "I'm not interested in what happened at the show, I'm interested in finding the acrobat now. Check every drum kit, guitar case, and beer cooler that came from the show to Mordhaus."

Gytha tumbled out of a cooler and bit the back of her hand sharply. After four hours curled up in such a tiny space, everything from the waist down was well and truly asleep. Now that her circulation was restored, she was graced with the not-so-pleasant feeling that her lower half was on fire.

Still, it was better than _actually _being on fire, which was her other choice before she squeezed herself into the empty cooler.

She hissed curses through her teeth and cried and snotted herself, hoping the whole time that she wouldn't lose anything due to the blood loss.

After a mere ten minutes of excruciating pain, her blood reacquainted itself with her circulatory system and she felt like she could walk without falling. Gytha tottered upright, noting to never wear high heels to a metal concert again.

Okay . . . okay, where was she? What place had such incredibly brutal architecture? Where could she be that her ears would pop leaving, but not arriving?

. . . .

Oh shit.

Gytha stumbled towards a window and looked down and further down and still further down through the clouds. Oh crap on a crap cracker; she was in Mordhaus! Mordhaus! Fuck exponentially! How was she supposed to sneak out of Mordhaus? It was 14,000 feet above ground! Ohgodohgodohgod, she was gonna die . . . .

A cackle of female laughter reached her ears.

Wait . . . there were still groupies about. They had to send them back to terra firma somehow. After all, some of them lived long enough to birth Skwisgaar's eighty bazillion children. Maybe if she just kept her head down until morning when the Gears started shuffling the sluts back down to Earth, she could sneak in among them and get out of this in one piece!

Living was a good thing!

Okay; she had to find the party first so she could hang around the edges.

Gytha pushed open a door and walked in on Nathan Explosion getting a blowjob.

From two women at once.

Oh. Well. That was nice for him. Nobody appeared to be paying attention to her, so maybe she could just creep by to the next door and be gone before any of them noticed she was here. Yes, just quietly, quietly, she really needed to never wear heels again, so quietly—

"Hey."

'He might not be talking to me,' Gytha thought desperately. 'There's several people in the room, after all.'

"Hey, rubber chick!"

Well _that_ narrowed it down a bit. Trying to appear as calm as possible, Gytha turned back towards the hulking front man.

"Um . . . yes?"

"How long did it – Don't stop! – how long did it take you to get that flexible? What did you have to do?"

"Uh . . . I come from a circus family; I have been in training since I was four. I stretch for t'ree hours every day," Gytha answered. "And den, you know, two performances t'ree nights a week on top of dat."

Nathan considered this for a moment, then looked down at the two women servicing him.

"Nah, this is easier," he declared.

Explosion closed his eyes again and tilted his head back, enjoying the attention the groupies were lavishing on his most intimate parts. There didn't seemed to be any more required of Gytha, so she crept out of the far door and closed it behind her.

"Surprise!" Toki Wartooth declared, aiming a gun between her eyes.

There was a loud bang and confetti and glitter showered out of the gun barrel.

"Ha! Gots you! Joo looked so scareds, too!" The guitarist cackled.

"My _eyes_!" Gytha howled, trying to wipe glitter and confetti out of her eyes.

"Awww, joo's okay!" Toki reassured her, despite all evidence to the contrary. "Hey, joos de acrobat lady what dids de routine on my guitar!"

The vague noise of pain that tumbled from her lips was evidently answer enough for Toki.

"Dat's was real cool! What's circus joo works for? Can we gets free tickets?"

"Tokis, don'ts bot'er de lady, can'ts joos not sees she's whats gots somet'ing in her eyes?" A deeper voice chided.

Through the tears pouring down her cheeks in her body's desperate attempt to flush out the foreign objects, Gytha was aware of a large – very, very large figure – looming over her.

"I nots bot'erinks her! She's de acrobats whats dids de routine on _Toki's_ guitar, not Skwisgaar's! For _Toki's_ solo!"

"Oh, now joos t'inks joos lays claims to her? Little Tokis, dat's sos cute. A professkionals constructionist woulds be totallys wasted on joo."

"Fucks you, Skwisgaar! Toki knows what to do with bendy ladies!"

"W-what?" Gytha squawked, trying to wipe snot and tears from her face.

"_Ja_, what's joos does with bendy ladies, littles Toki? Tells us," Skwisgaar challenged. "Whats joos gots planned for hers rubbery body?"

Most of the glitter out of her eyes, Gytha looked up in time to see Toki Wartooth blush hotly.

"Er . . ."

"Maybes you could shares de milkshake. Or lickses off de same lillipops. I bets she'd loves to sees joor toy planes," Skwisgaar sneered.

"Fucks you, Skwisgaar! Leasts Tokis won't makes her share bed wit' old ladies an' fatties!"

This argument didn't seem to require her participation either, so Gytha started backing away.

"Ppffffft; she wantses alone time, shes could probably gets Murderface to marries her. She don'ts wants to wastes times on uglies!"

"She don'ts wants to waste time on skinny Swede, neit'ers!" Toki wrenched up his shirt and slapped his defined abs. "Ladies likes Norwegian beefcake!"

Klokateers were starting to push into the large room, evidently trained to do so at the sound of Scandinavian accents raised in anger. Gytha squeaked and ducked under a coffee table, commando-crawling along the floor. She needed a hiding place!

"Oh, yeah? Bendy Lady, which joo rather has: Norwegian fishcakes or sexy – where she goes?"

"Hah, she gets bored listens to stuck up Skwisgaar! She afraid joo sneeze and she gets pregnant with kid joo never goes to see!"

"_Fuckses joo, Toki!_"

Gears rushed forward to break up the half-hearted scrap between the two guitarists. They weren't very serious, but there were a lot more of them lately. Ever since the Norwegian's very brief stint as lead guitarist, Toki and Skwisgaar seemed to be picking fights with each other over nothing.

The fact that the acrobat had buggered off after 'old ladies and fatties' had little impact on the squabble, as did the fact that she was currently hiding behind a couch nearby.

Jammed tightly between the black leather seat and the wall, Gytha reflected that this might be the best place to spend the night. Yeah; sure she was in a tight space, but no one was likely to look here and she could shift enough to keep blood flowing to all the pertinent places. She would have to check her toes later to make sure none of them had turned black while she was jammed in that cooler.

Someone sat down on the couch hard enough to slam it against the wall, nearly crushing Gytha in the process.

"Fine! Motherfucking fine! It'sh becaushe I'm the bassh player!" Murderface grumbled.

Gytha tried to wheeze as quietly as possible while the bass player muttered and whined about some slight to his dignity. Minor squishing aside, it was still a good hiding place. Wait . . . what time did the party-goers start to go home?

There were men here as well as women, so they couldn't _all_ stay the whole night. Or maybe they could; rock star's parties were supposed to go until the participants dropped from exhaustion. But . . . . maybe there would be transport back to the ground soon. Maybe she could leave in an hour or two and claim that none of the band had wanted a scrawny runt like her.

That was entirely believable; men didn't really pay her any attention until they knew she could put her feet behind her head.

A long, rippling noise reached Gytha's ears. It took her a minute to realize that Murderface had just farted. Lovely. Well; it was still a good hiding place. Murderface's flatulence couldn't be worse than the sulfuric smell of hot springs or the no-holds-barred stench of _hakarl_.

So, she would definitely wait until the guitarists stopped brawling. They were screaming at each other in their native tongues now. Gytha's Norwegian wasn't the greatest but now they seemed to be fighting over who ate the last jar of fermented herring.

Anyway, she would wait until things quieted a bit, then sneak out and go find a shuttle or a . . . . . oh God. Oh _God._

Gytha slapped her hand over her nose and mouth. What was that smell? Surely that couldn't have come from a human! That was – Oh God, it smelled like someone burning a chicken house that hadn't been cleaned in a decade! Tears sprang to her eyes and she tried desperately to inhale without gagging.

Murderface shifted and let out another fart.

The smell served to diffuse the situation between Toki and Skwisgaar. The two Scandinavians fled the room holding their noses. The Gears followed them, ostensibly to make sure they didn't fight again, but actually to escape the raw stench.

"Oh Geezsh, it'sh not that bad!" Murderface yelled after them. "Fucking prisshy little weeniesh!"

There was a shuffling noise behind him and a small woman slithered out from behind the couch and collapsed on the seat next to Dethklok's bass player.

"Hey there, little mama," he purred.

Gytha dry heaved and staggered for the door as quickly as she could, given her footwear.

"Picky shkank!"

The little Icelander ducked out into the hall, then darted in the opposite direction as the large group of Klokateers.

'Don't run, don't run!' she chided herself. 'Grandpa always said the cops would chase a running man just on principle! You walk and be polite and most of the time you could bluff your way through anything. Jesus, Grandpa, what were you doing when you were my age?'

"Hey, Pretzel Chick!"

Pickles the Drummer was trying to crawl down the cleavage of a leggy blonde, but paused to point at Gytha.

"I kin do what you do! I kin bend up an' git all twisty! I kin . . . I kin do dat," he announced.

"Oh. Dat's cool," Gytha said politely.

"I kin . . . I kin suck my own dick," the drummer continued.

The groupies gathered around the redhead gasped and giggled at this news.

"Dat's . . . . male contortionists do dat a lot," Gytha said with a wry grin. "Even if dey don't admit it."

"Can you suck your own dick?" Pickles asked.

" . . . I don't have a dick."

"Oh. Oh yeah."

"Um, Mr. . . . Pickles, do you know where de shuttle takes us back down to eart'?"

"Uh . . . yeah. Go reight down dat hall an' take a left and dere's a helicopter pad at de end of it. Dere should be a little transport dere now takin' people up an down."

"T'ank – _Th_ank you so very, very much," Gytha said sincerely.

"Sure; whatever," Pickles turned his attention back to the blonde's breasts.

Gytha casually made her way down the hall and turned left to the large French doors at the end, brutally decorated in wrought iron. A small helicopter capable of carrying eight to ten people was waiting on the helipad. There were about six people inside.

The Klokateer in the cockpit saw her head towards the pad and started making preparations to start it up. He didn't recognize her; he'd take her back down to safety and she could get off at the first stop.

She was literally twenty feet away from a clean getaway. Ten feet. Five. . . Gytha put her hand on the passenger door.

"Mr. Ofdensen would like a _word_ with you," a deep voice behind her growled.

That was the last thing she heard before a black bag descended over her.


	3. Chapter 3

"Gytha Sinnsdottir, hmmm?"

Charles Offdensen looked at the ID, pain and paternity waivers, and legal records of Gytha Sinnsdottir in neat stacks on his desk.

"Yes, My Lord. She's a contortionist with a metal-themed circus based out of Goteborg, Sweden. Before that, she worked at the . . the Cir-queh duh So-leel—"

"_Cirque Du Soleil_," Charles corrected automatically. "She was contortionist again?"

"No, My Lord; she was a clown."

"A clown? She's not a coke fiend, is she?"

"Ah, no, My Lord. She's never tested positive for anything harder than weed."

"That's a relief. Now . . . why are there extra fingerprints on her cards?"

Taped onto Gytha's fingerprint cards was an extra box for each hand, an extra fingerprint squarely in the middle of each.

"She has six fingers on each hand, My Lord." Klokateer 46122 shrugged. "Circus folk," he muttered.

"Interesting."

Charles spared a glance at the monitor, where the unfortunate Miss Sinnsdottir was duct-taped to a chair with a black bag over her head. She was in one of the isolation chambers designed to unnerve the 'guests' with solitude and silence while it was worked out what to do with them. While a strong, impressive looking chair replete with built-in restraints for the arms and legs dominated the room, Gytha was placed in a metal folding chair beside it.

"And why the folding chair?"

"Her arms and legs wouldn't reach the restraints on the regular interrogation chairs," 46122 reported. "Given how slippery she's been, we decided not to take chances."

"Wise decision," Charles opined.

On the monitor, Gytha suddenly bent her head over practically into her own lap. Charles thought she was vomiting at first, but the tiny woman managed to force her knees together and pinch the bag fabric just enough to pull it off. She looked around the solemn room, her eye makeup streaking and running. She'd obviously been crying.

"By all accounts, she's just been trying to get out of here, My Lord. We found no recording equipment or Dethklok property on her person. She's had casual contact with every member of the band and broke it off as soon as possible," 46122 continued.

The onscreen Gytha tested her bonds. Her arms were taped to the side supports of the folding chair from her wrists nearly to her elbows. The Gears had tried to tape her legs to the chair's legs, but found they wouldn't reach. Duct tape had saved the day again.

However, when there was at least six inches of space between whatever needed to be taped, the bond was less than secure. As Charles watched, Gytha wrenched first one leg, then the other out of the grip of the duct tape, leaving her socks behind.

"Why did you remove her shoes?"

"She was wearing four-inch stiletto heels, My Lord; those things are as dangerous as the knives of the same name."

"Does she have six toes on each foot?"

"We . . . didn't count her toes, My Lord."

Gytha stretched her legs out before her, and then curled them in a traditional cross-legged pose. She rested there for a moment, tugging experimentally at the duct tape on her arms. A decision seemed to have been made.

Gytha un-crossed her legs and pulled her knees up to her chin, feet flat on the seat of the chair. She rocked forward, ducking her head back to avoid the back of the chair, and then leaned to one side, then the other to rotate her shoulders in the proper direction.

Now confident in the fact that she wouldn't dislocate her arms when she changed position, the small Icelander stood on the chair seat. Or rather, her legs straightened and her pelvis rose into the air. Arms still lashed to the chair supports, Gytha folded over backwards as neatly as a clean towel folded over someone's arm.

Charles couldn't help one eyebrow quirking upward.

"What is it, My Lord? Is she trying to get free?"

"I'm not sure what she's doing, 46122," the CFO admitted.

Gytha fidgeted in her pose for a moment, and then raised one leg high in the air, followed by the other. All of her weight was balanced on her arms as she gripped – no, Charles realized – she wasn't gripping the chair supports. She was putting all of her weight on the duct tape.

Which was stretching.

"How secure is that room, 46122?"

"She might be able to pull free of the duct tape, My Lord, but she can't get out of the room. All ventilation ducts are covered in heavy-duty grates that are bolted down. The door is dead bolted from the other side."

On screen, Gytha bent over backwards again, returning her arms to their original positions. There was enough wiggle room in the stretched out duct tape for her to pull free. The little contortionist looked around the room, studying the vents and door.

Then her gaze went to the large, square fluorescent light set in the ceiling.

"What about the light?" Charles asked.

"My Lord?"

"The light in the ceiling. What's to stop her from going through that?"

"There's no way she could reach it, for starters."

"Well . . . . unless she had a folding chair to set on top of the interrogation chair," Charles stated, his eyes never leaving the screen. "And . . . . her balance was good enough that she could stand on the back of the folding chair. . . . and she was desperate enough to punch through the glass . . ."

Klokateer #46,122 was already on his two way radio, ordering every Gear within one hundred feet to get to the interrogation room.

Charles watched dispassionately as Gytha Sinnsdottir ripped the fluorescent light down and crawled through the hole.

"I . . . I think this one might be . . . a survivor."

Gytha pulled herself through the space created by the broken light, ignoring the sharp edges of metal digging gouges in her bare stomach. She was already a mess; her hands were practically hamburger just from balancing on the pegs of the Flying V, much less from punching through a sheet of Plexiglas.

She wouldn't be able to do a handstand for days.

Gytha started to crawl through the tight space jammed with wires and tubing and water pipes. The good news was whoever designed Mordhaus had decided that one big space for ventilation, plumbing, and electric wiring was more cost effective. The bad news was Gytha was now crawling along in the darkness with her belly on damp water pipes and dangling wires catching in her hair. One poorly insulated wire and things would go from 'atrocious' to 'Game Over, man, Game Over!'

"I just want to go home," she muttered in her native tongue. "Is that too much to ask?"

Apparently the universe thought it was, since she continued to belly crawl through darkness

She didn't know how long she slithered along until she reached an elevator shaft. Hours, maybe? There was a bit of light filtering through from the floors above and Gytha soon located an access ladder. Climbing it was almost out of the question as her hands had swollen to almost twice their normal size. She hooked her elbows around the side pieces and slowly stepped up on feet that weren't in much better shape than her hands.

'Jesus, I'm glad the Gears took my shoes,' she thought. 'There's no way I'd still be walking at this point.'

Up, up, up she went; one step at a time into the shaft. What was she heading for, exactly? She didn't really know. 'Down' was probably a bad choice, as that would be where the Gears got down to the business of running Dethklok's empire. 'Up' was more likely to be the elite living quarters. At this point, she just wanted to be _away_ from the violent men in the hoods. Maybe she could live in the walls for a few weeks until they let their guard down and then slip away on a supply run. If she stuck to the ventilation shafts, that would cut down on the chances they'd spray for Gythas.

'I'm actually considering this as a viable course of action,' Gytha mused. 'That would have to be the third strangest place I've ever lived.'

Her imagination supplied her with a mental image of Gears with spraying equipment banging for hollow spaces in the walls, muttering: 'Damn Gythas! They're worse than squirrels this time of year! The last thing anyone needs is an infestation of Icelandic contortionists!'

A tiny giggle escaped her lips.

'Toki, Skwisgaar, don't leave the fermented herring out, it'll attract Gythas! Pickles, check your drums before practice to make sure a Gytha isn't curled up in one of them! Remember boys; they're more scared of you than you are of them!'

The Gytha in question tittered giddily at this.

'Wow,' some still rational part of her mind mused. 'If you find that funny, you need some sleep.'

"Oh, I know," Gytha sighed to herself, leaning back for a moment to stare up the elevator shaft. "You know, with my shitty luck, I'm amazed an elevator hasn't come through by now."

Far above, machinery clanked and a warning rumble shook the shaft.

"Goddammit," Gytha muttered.

Well, there was no need to panic just yet; she just had to get to another ventilation shaft before the car came down. The small Icelander increased her rate of climb until she found another ventilation duct and crawled inside. This duct was larger and more open than the ones down below. So the rooms it accessed would be better ventilated. So she was probably back up in the elite levels.

That was some good news, at least.

The feeling of slight optimism faded at the sound of a scream. Gytha tensed, ready to run, even though there was no physical way she could do so. Another, stuttering scream reached her ears and this time she recognized that it wasn't_ that_ kind of a scream.

Oh yeah; she was back up among the band.

Gytha continued crawling forward until she passed a vent leading into Nathan Explosion's bedroom. She didn't recognize the place by sight, but the deep, baritone roar of a lead singer in rut was unmistakable. In fact, Gytha couldn't see much of anything; a huge canopy of blood red fabric blocked her view. A canopy of . . . . fairly sturdy-looking fabric.

Gytha's sleep deprived brain sat up and noted the gentle, soft-looking folds of fabric that hung temptingly on the other side of the vent. The little Icelander pushed out on the vent, popping it from the frame. She wasn't too worried about making noise; from the cacophony coming from the bed, she probably could have fired a cannon in the room without making too much noise.

Gytha set the vent sideways in the frame and tested the strength of the canopy first with one hand, then two, then both hands and a knee. The canopy held, gently swaying from the shaking of the bed. It wasn't bad; it reminded Gytha of the swell of the sea under a boat. She finally crawled fully out onto the canopy, set the vent back into the frame, rolled herself up in the swags of red and fell into an exhausted slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

The room was filled with Gears when Gytha woke.

She couldn't see them, thank God, but she could hear them moving through the room. The exhausted groupies squealed protests as Klokateers yanked them to their feet for cursory inspections.

"Huh . . . what're you guys doing?" Nathan slurred.

"Just a loose skank check, Milord," one of the Gears answered.

"Got a brunette with blonde highlights!" A Gear called from the other side of the room. "Short, too!"

'Oh, that doesn't sound like a loose skank,' Gytha thought to herself. 'That sounds like a loose Gytha.'

"Her tits are too big," one Gear declared. "The one we're looking for is flat as a board."

Gytha scowled up at the ceiling a few feet above her head. She had breasts! They weren't big, but they were there!

"I don't do flat-chested chicks," Nathan declared. "Check Skwisgaar or Murderface's room."

"We've already checked Lord Murderface's room, Milord. Another team has been checking Lord Skwisgaar's room for the past half-hour."

Unseen by the hidden acrobat, one Gear knelt down to shine a flashlight under Nathan's bed. When the sweep revealed nothing but dust bunnies and a few discarded liquor bottles, the hood sat back on his heels and glanced up at the huge canopy over the lead singer's bed. After moment, the Gear leaned back over the mattress and stared intently at the underside of the canopy. He gestured for another one to join him.

Just visible in the thick red fabric was the outline of a small body.

Gytha reflected that it had suddenly gotten very quiet down there.

"What are you guys staring at? What's – what? It's . . . oh. Uh, I guess she's not here! You guys can leave now!" Nathan bellowed in a loud voice. "Goodbye! I guess I'll just go back to sleep!"

Fuck!

Gytha attempted to lunge for the air vent, but a blade came up through the canopy fabric and the whole thing tore, dumping her unceremoniously in Nathan Explosion's bed.

"That's the one! Get her!"

Gears piled onto the enormous bed, causing the mattress to bounce and flail wildly. Gytha bounced twice in an undignified spread eagle position before gathering herself and landing on her feet.

"You guys are fucking up my mattress!" Nathan pointed out in a bellow.

Gytha bounced high as a Gear lunged for her, flipped over as another tried to get his hands on her and used a third as a springhorse to launch herself towards the canopy. The fabric was beyond all use, but she managed to catch onto the canopy frame and flip herself around it like it was an uneven bar.

A Gear bounced off the bed awkwardly and flipped over a bedside table loaded with lubricants and sex toys, scattering the items across the floor. One of the groupies still present jumped back to avoid a jelly vibrator and stepped on a full bottle of lube, causing it empty it's contents in a rather spectacular way. As the original groupie went down, she pulled down the one next to her and started a domino effect. Partially dressed women and Klokateers fell, landed on bottles of lubricant, which squeezed out more and added to the puddle of slipperiness currently spreading across Nathan's bedroom floor. Within a minute, pretty much everyone in the room was either wallowing in lubricant on the floor or hiding on the bed from said lubricant.

"Jesus, this place is fucked," Nathan grunted, sliding slowly across the floor.

Normally Gytha would have agreed with this sentiment, but she was busy noticing that everyone appeared have fallen or slid away from the door. Without hesitation, the little gymnast spun around the bar twice to build up speed and launched herself towards the floor in general direction of the floor. Hitting the floor butt first hurt and it felt like there was something jammed somewhere intimate, but she zipped through the door on her back.

She zipped through the door, across the hall and straight towards the balcony.

The railing supports weren't close enough together to actually prevent a person from falling through them because hey, this was Mordhaus; 'safe' wasn't exactly on the list of priorities. It was only a mercy that they weren't razor-sharp.

Gytha flipped onto her side and caught a railing before she could careen off into space. Nathan's bedroom was overlooking the great hall of Mordhaus from the top floor. A four-story drop awaited anyone unlucky enough to test the railings.

The unfortunate Icelandic lady dangled from one railing support, nothing between her and a messy death but fifty feet of thin air.

On the bright side, whatever had been jammed in her butt was gone.

* * *

Something splattered on the end of the breakfast table.

Charles looked towards the sound, but something plopping into his coffee made him look back around. Across the table, the only other early riser in the band looked up from his cereal.

"Whats ams dat, Charles?" Toki asked, shoveling in another mouthful of cereal.

"Something . . something fell in my coffee," the CFO stated, fishing around in his cup with a spoon. "Here it is. It's . . . ah . . . oh."

Toki Wartooth giggled around his breakfast.

"You gots a cockring in joos coffee!" he informed his manager.

Charles replaced the cockring and shoved his coffee cup away. While Toki still tittered like a schoolgirl, the band manager turned to look up.

Dangling from the top balcony was a small figure in black.

"Dat's what ams de acrobats lady," Toki observed. "Hey, can I gets poseds pictures of dats routines she does on my guitar? Dat was cool."

Charles' eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the struggling woman.

"We'll . . . we'll have to see about that, Toki."

* * *

The Gears were starting to get to their feet. Or at least to hands and knees and were crawling laboriously in her direction.

The railing supports were too far apart for her to simply reach over and the floor in front of her was covered in lube. Shit. Gytha swung a leg for the nearest support and managed to hook her ankle over it. Her hands – which had still hurt when she woke – were now filing a list of complaints and submitting them to the union.

She really didn't have time to struggle with her weak hands. One ankle still hooked over the far support, Gytha kicked her other leg as high as she could, clamped her toes on the edge of the floor and with a combination of 'walking' her toes and brief tugs with her ever-weakening hands, managed to hook her ankle over the support she clung to.

It had to be at least a two hundred and twenty five degree split and normally she'd be ecstatic with such an oversplit, there was still the business of falling to her death to deal with.

Her weight now on her legs, Gytha let go of the support and clung to the edge of the floor. With an almost Herculean push, she pushed herself up on her legs until she could wiggle belly first onto the floor. She crawled gingerly to safety and looked up.

"That's the one! I've got her!" an enormous Gear bellowed, running down the hall towards her.

Evidently no one had warned the massive man about the trail of lube on the floor. The Klokateer slipped on the near-invisible trail, went down on his back, and hurdled towards Gytha. The little woman somersaulted backwards to avoid him and landed on the railing. The unfortunate Gear shot through the gap under the railing and plummeted. The man smashed into the end of the table where Charles and Toki were eating breakfast.

The force of the blow collapsed the far end of the table and made the other leap into the air, dumping both men's meals on themselves or the floor. Charles looked down at his ruined suit – now coated with an almost-full bowl of oatmeal – and sighed roughly. Toki picked through the remains of the table for a Dethbell and rang it daintily.

Word had gotten around about the lube. Newly arrived Gears now carefully picked their way over or around the spreading puddle while their already slippery compatriots tried to contain the worst of the flow. Nathan Explosion was handed off to a pair of hoods and walked carefully away from the balcony, still fighting to keep his balance.

* * *

The hoods approached Gytha cautiously, which was somehow worse than an all-out charge. Still standing on the railing, she inched away from them, trying desperately to think of a way out of this.

The hallway was jam packed with Klokateers. The vaulted ceiling left nothing in the way of beams or supports to run for and there was nary an air vent in sight. The only way out was down. Way, way down.

Shit.

The Gears lunged forward. Gytha leapt for the void.

* * *

By the time Charles had toweled the worst of the mess off of his suit, Toki was sitting cross-legged in one of the dining room chairs, a cloth napkin in his lap, a bowl of fruit, honey and granola in one hand and his neck craned back to watch the high-flying antics of 'de acrobats lady'.

"You am know she remindings me of?" he inquired casually.

"Who would that be, Toki?"

"Titter de clown from 'The Happy Melons' show," the heavy metal beast said conversationally. "Dey both gots serious flexibles."

"Ah . . . that's nice, Toki," Charles said, gesturing for a Gear.

"Ooop! Dere she goes!"

* * *

Gytha had fallen before. Given her dayjob, it was right up there with pulled muscles as an occupational hazard. But she had never fallen four stories before. Four stories was a long, long way.

A chandelier hung at around second story level offered a bit of hope. Gytha reached and grabbed the edge. The chandelier jerked sideways in reaction the sudden weight on it.

It was at this point that Gytha's abused hands decided to stage a strike.

The light bar slipped from her grip and she plunged the last two stories with no control and no possible way to minimize the impact.

She landed on the dead Gear that was being carried away by two of his compatriots.

For a long moment, she lay dazed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling with a fixed gaze. The chandelier swung back and forth, momentarily obscuring the line of hoods that peered over the railings at her.

Moving slowly and painfully, Gytha rolled off of the dead Gear and tried to sit up.

Hands seized her from every direction, wrenching her into a standing position. A Klokateer before her pulled out a handgun and cocked it with flourish, then aimed it right between her eyes. The chances that this one was loaded with glitter and confetti were very, very slim.

Gytha squeaked and screwed her eyes shut.

"Wait."

The utterance was soft; spoken in a conversational tone but the captive gymnast still started as though it were a gunshot. A soft crunching sound reached her ears and she hazarded peeking with one eye.

CFO Charles Offdensen was standing before her, munching on a bagel.

The utterly cool visage was spoiled slightly by his oatmeal-spattered suit, but only slightly.

"Bind her – _securely_ – and put her in my office. I'll deal with her personally after breakfast," he ordered.

A stay of execution for any reason should have been a relief, but hearing Charles _motherfucking_ Offdensen saying he'd 'deal with her personally' really, really didn't make her feel any better.

"Can I gets dose pictures?" Toki inquired from his seat.

"We'll just have to see, Toki," the manager stated.

* * *

Charles and Toki finished breakfast in the kitchen, then the CFO headed up to his office. He had a spare suit in the massive suite, so changing wasn't a hassle. He'd let the contortionist stew for a few minutes longer.

The manager nodded to the two Gears positioned on the sides of his office door and entered. Charles stopped just inside his office and took stock of the situation.

"That's . . . . that's . . . . . . ah . . . . thorough," he announced.

"We _weren't_ letting her get past us again," the Klokateer to the left of the door growled.

"I can see that. It's . . . ah . . . looks professional."

"Klokateer # 8856 takes a certain interest, My Lord," the Gear to the right of the door informed him. "He says he'd love to show what he's capable of with more than ten minutes to work with. He also humbly requests his ball gag back when you're finished with it."

"Uh-huh. And the blindfold? It looks like leather."

"#8856 says that's his least favorite one and he lost the gimp mask that came with it, so he really doesn't care if it's ruined, but the ball gag has sentimental value, Sire."

"Ah. Well. I'll keep that in mind," Charles said, closing the door behind him.

Gytha Sinnsdottir was tied up on his desk.

Well, that sentence didn't quite tell the whole story. It was like saying someone who had just been struck by lightning was feeling under the weather. While true, it lacked the severity necessary to fully convey the situation.

Evidently the Gears had been feeling particularly vindictive when they chose how to position her. The very flexible Ms. Sinnsdottir's arms were stretched out before her, bound together at the wrists and elbows. She was forced into a backbend that left her sitting on her own shoulders, while her ankles were tied together behind her. A line ran from her wrists, under Charles' desk and attached to the rope around her ankles, essentially tying her to the desk. A large red ball gag and black leather blindfold added the gilding to the bondage lily.

For a moment, Offdensen marveled at the fact that he could be here, in this position, witnessing such a thing before nine in the morning.

"What happened to my life?" he wondered out loud.

Well, he still needed to change. The Icelandic gymnast certainly wasn't going anywhere. Charles took a spare pair of trousers and a clean shirt out of the closet and headed for the en suite bathroom.

"I'll be with you in just a moment, Miss Sinnsdottir," he announced before closing the door after him.

Charles was came out of the bathroom quickly, half expecting Gytha to be wriggling out of the ropes, but she remained where she was, drooling around the gag onto his blotter.

"Hey, Ahffdensen! David Bowie called me . . . uh."

Pickles burst in the door. The dredlocked ginger paused in mid rush, taking in the bruised, bloodied, and bound woman on the desk and his manager in just slacks and a half-way buttoned shirt.

"Can it wait, Pickles? I'm right in the middle of something here," Charles stated, doing up his shirt.

"Uh . . . . don't worry about it, I'll come back later," the drummer muttered, retreating quickly out the door.

Heedless to how the situation looked, Charles put on a fresh tie and suit jacket before turning back to his captive guest.

"I trust the position isn't a problem for you, but I do need to use the desk. Let's get you out of this mess," the manager sighed, unbuckling the ball gag.

What seemed like a lake of drool spilled out onto the blotter. Charles sighed again, but slipped the blindfold off and set about wrestling with the knots. Two minutes later, he withdrew a small, sharp blade from a desk drawer and simply sliced through the bonds. His companion freed, Charles sat at his desk with an authoritative air.

"You impress me, Miss Sinnsdottir."

Gytha came to the conclusion that she could either come out of her pose gracefully or avoid kicking Charles M.F. Offdensen in the head, but not both at the same time. She elected to fall off the front of the desk.

"Maybe . . . ah . . . not right this second, but I am impressed nonetheless. Please take a seat."

It took Gytha a minute to crawl up into the surprisingly comfortable chair offered to her.

"Let's cut right to the chase; in eighteen hours, with no resources and no knowledge of the layout of Mordhaus, you eluded our security forces twice, came into contact with every band member, spent the night in Nathan Explosion's bedroom and even got close enough to me to ruin my suit and land . . . something very embarrassing in my coffee. That's impressive. I'd like to offer you a job, Miss Sinnsdottir."

Gytha blinked at him for a minute.

"A . . . a job?" she finally managed. "Doing what?"

"Officially, you'd be listed as a 'security consultant', but you would do just what you've been doing so far: testing our security. You'd get your own quarters, of course, but a few days a week, you'll be given a band member to 'tag'. You'll have to avoid the Gears and place a small tag on the given band member to complete the job. You'll stay in Mordhaus and be well compensated if you accept."

"'If I accept'? I get a choice?"

"Of course," Charles said reasonably. "If you aren't interested in working for Dethklok, you only have to walk through _that_ door and you'll never hear from anyone attached to the band again."

Gytha followed the manager's nod to a nearby door. She . . . she could just leave? She could walk out and never hear from anyone attached to the band again? Why did that sound so very final? Gytha started to frown, filing the offer under 'extremely suspicious'.

"Dat door? Dat door right dere?" she asked, pointing.

"Ah, yes, that one. Feel free to go through it if you like."

Charles noted the highly suspicious scowl Gytha gave the door.

"Do you . . . . mind if I just check somet'ing?" she asked.

"Not at all. Go right ahead," Offdensen said generously.

Gytha stood and made her way to the door, limping slightly. As the CFO watched, the small woman sniffed cautiously at the door. Gytha placed her hand on the door. It was cold. Gytha scowled harder. An extremely cold door in Mordhaus? An extremely cold door in Mordhaus that promised freedom?

Gytha looked around and saw a brass railing on a nearby bookcase and got a good grip on it. She considered the state of her hands and hooked a knee around the door frame.

Then she opened the door.

The suction at fourteen thousand feet actually wasn't that strong. She probably could have gone without the knee hook. She still peered down the chute at the ground thousands of feet below. Well, she told a lie; it looked like Mordhaus was over the ocean right now.

There was her choice; a quick plummet to her death, or employment by Dethklok.

Gytha pulled the door shut and leaned against for a minute. A few hot, angry tears streamed down her cheeks.

"You're a sick, sick bastard!" she spat. "A psycho monster! _Riddu ter!_"

"Yes? And your point would be?" Charles inquired calmly.

"My point is, I can't say such things after you're my boss!" Gytha snarled, turning away from the door.

She stomped back over to the desk and sat down.

"Where do I sign?"


End file.
